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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26707360">ours are the moments i play in the dark</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/seravphim/pseuds/seravphim'>seravphim</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Les Misérables - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Fluff and Angst, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Non-Explicit Sex, Non-Linear Narrative</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 06:33:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,685</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26707360</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/seravphim/pseuds/seravphim</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The first time it happened it was like having all of the air in your lungs sucked out at once. Some things change about people, across lives and space and time, like the color of their hair (this time he is brunette) or the shape of their mouth or the bridge of their nose. But Enjolras maintains that familiar glint in his eye everywhere Grantaire has found him, that gentleness softening the power in his voice. The first time Grantaire sees Enjolras again, he is shouting for </i>liberte, egalite, fraternite,<i> and Grantaire thinks maybe god is punishing him for being such a lousy fool all those years ago. </i></p>
<p>// a look into a few of the times grantaire has found enjolras throughout the years.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>54</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>ours are the moments i play in the dark</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>rq: this is based on the poem <a href="https://www.shousetsubangbang.com/mirror/25-lives/">'25 Lives'</a> by Tongari, which I highly recommend! Also the title is from 'Supercut' by Lorde :^)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>
  <em> “What if, in another universe, I deserve you? [...] So okay, let’s presume the multiverse is real. Well then, maybe somewhere in those infinite universes is one, or several, where I deserve you.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> -Gaby Dunn </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Grantaire remembers all of it distinctly. He especially remembers the first time, circa 1832, all red flags waving and bullets raining down from the heavens. That is to say, he remembers what he can, after he set his head down on the table and woke up to the shock of silence. Silence and Enjolras, breathing heavy and not quite ready to cry, fingernails dug into his palms like lifelines. Everything was all still and clear after those words - <em> vive la republique! - </em>had cut the room in half and Enjolras had looked at him for the first time all night, possibly for the first time in all those years (and he would come to know him in many more), and smiled. It was an earth-shattering thing, his smile wide and blissful enough, despite everything, to make his eyes wrinkle around the corner, enough that Grantaire swore a rifle had faltered for just a moment, enough that he finally had the strength to stand beside him. Mostly, he remembers the way his hand had fit into his, and admittedly, on some cold and distant nights this is the only thing he chooses to remember. That, and one haunting picture as the volley rang out and he collapsed at his feet - Enjolras’ eyes turned down to him, still holding his hand, still smiling with that familiar rebellious spirit, making sure Grantaire was the last thing he would ever see. A gaze that promised he would come back.</p>
<p>He does come back, often enough. But he doesn’t remember. </p>
<p>The first time it happened it was like having all of the air in your lungs sucked out at once. Some things change about people, across lives and space and time, like the color of their hair (this time he is brunette) or the shape of their mouth or the bridge of their nose. But Enjolras maintains that familiar glint in his eye everywhere Grantaire has found him, that gentleness softening the power in his voice. The first time Grantaire sees Enjolras again, he is shouting for <em> liberte, egalite, fraternite, </em>and Grantaire thinks maybe god is punishing him for being such a lousy fool all those years ago. </p>
<p>It is 1848, and neither of them are older than 17, and this time they make it out of the insurrections alive. Enjolras (because Grantaire will always, always know him as Enjolras) has broken his leg, but lying in the hospital bed he barely notices this as he reads in the paper about the end of the July Monarchy and the start of the French Second Republic. <em> The February Revolution. </em> He watches a dimple form in his right cheek and thinks, <em> we made it out alive, this time. </em></p>
<p>Grantaire is sitting by his bed, and Enjolras is crying tears of gold down his cheeks, and all he can do is think about the smile he gave him even as he was shot 8 times, all those years ago. Enjolras’ euphoria is almost as intimidating as his fury, and Grantaire tries to calm him down. He is smiling so much that stitches are coming undone along his jaw. </p>
<p>“Hold still, Apollo,” he had said, a hesitant hand easing him back onto his pillow. He had dipped a bit of cloth in a bowl, gently brushing his healing wounds with it. “You have just lived to see the French Republic and you are going to die of happiness.” </p>
<p>In this one, he has tried to be very good for him. In this one, Enjolras likes him. “If I died of happiness right now, Grantaire, I would be content.”</p>
<p>Grantaire hums, acutely aware of Enjolras’ nose almost brushing his own as he tends to him. “I would not be content for you to die just yet.” <em> But in either case, I’ll see you next time.  </em></p>
<p>Enjolras hums something happy, trailing his hand up softly, hesitantly, up Grantaire’s arm until his palm rests on top of his. Enjolras is rubbing a circle on his knuckle. “I am content,” he had murmured, just before he closed the gap between them and pressed a gentle kiss onto him. Grantaire feels his eyelashes flutter against his cheek. He drops the damp cloth and it lands somewhere in the white ocean of the medical bed. </p>
<p>This is another constant throughout all of the times, how it feels to kiss him. Sometimes it is rushed and fervent and other times it is angry and frustrated and sometimes it is only a kiss goodbye, something to remember (because Grantaire <em> always </em> remembers), but every time, it is sweet. They always fit right into each other, and if Grantaire wasn’t completely sure before, he knows without doubt it is him once they kiss.</p>
<p>Something like a flash of lightning flashes through him and he must pull away, cup Enjolras’ face in his hands, and ask, “You really don’t remember at all?” </p>
<p>“Remember what?” Enjolras had asked, and Grantaire just shook his head. <em> Nevermind. </em>So, the first time they meet, Enjolras is blond and he doesnt love him, and the second time, he is brunette and he does. After a while, he stops trying to decipher whether or not the color of his hair means anything.<strong><br/></strong></p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> (There are some lives in which Enjolras kills him. Sometimes it’s an accident, but sometimes it isn't. Once, he crashes into his car, and Grantaire tells him he looks familiar before he bleeds out. It’s funny to see his face all worried over him. Another time, Grantaire won’t stop bugging him until Enjolras finally has the sense to slam his face into a wall. Not that he blames him. Anyway, these aren’t the worst lives. Not by far.) </em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>In another life, Enjolras is in law school and Grantaire is studying art. It is 1972 and he sits in the back of Enjolras’ little on-campus activist group sometimes and is in love with him all the time. Enjolras despises him in this one. He talks of capitalist propaganda and the threat of nuclear warfare and he hates the Beatles with a burning passion, which Grantaire will use to torment him to no end. When he goes on about rallying and community organization and bringing back the guillotine, Grantaire likes to solemnly stand up, clear his throat, and tell him <em> love is all you need </em> in his most serious-business voice <em> .  </em></p>
<p>Enjolras always tells him to get out, to quit doodling and pay attention, to <em> come to the protest at the very least, please, we need as many people as we can get, </em>and Grantaire mostly obliges. After so many years weaving in and out of Enjolras’ narrative he has learned not to take it personally when he wants him dead (and he has wanted him dead many, many times). </p>
<p>It is 1972 and Enjolras is drawing up plans for some sit-in protest and Grantaire is trying his hardest not to watch him. Another constant throughout history: the way he furrows his eyebrows, the way his eyes go dark when he is focused. Sometimes, Grantaire has had the pleasure of being the focus of his attention (and they have shared many, many pleasures).</p>
<p>Tonight is almost one of those nights, except when Enjolras finally diverts his attention up to him, probably feeling Grantaire’s prying eyes through his skin, he just sighs and asks in a feeble voice, “Why are you here?” </p>
<p>Grantaire pauses. It is not a question Enjolras has asked him before. He considers it, considers telling him the incredulous truth and later blaming it on his almost-drunken state, considers lying completely, considers saying “<em> for the booze” </em> because he knows its what Enjolras expects, but after a long moment filled with the memory of eight little bullets ringing through his head, all he tells him is “<em>For you.”  </em></p>
<p><em> For you, </em> the words linger in the space between them, across the long table, in the otherwise empty backroom of the cafe. It’s true, anyway. Grantaire wonders if this is what half the people on earth go through, secretly chasing their better half across history in hopes that one day, for one moment, they can stop time completely. Because that is what Enjolras is, after all. His better half. Grantaire knew, even the first time, even before he was reborn and looking for him, that he was destined to be the beloved and not the lover. Not that he minded. It’s not that Grantaire would do <em> anything </em>for Enjolras, really, but he has died for him. Who else could say that? </p>
<p><em> For you, </em> the words fizzle out, and Enjolras is considering him with a look Grantaire knows is uncertain. Out of all the different ways he has looked at him through the years, in pity, or resentment, or loathing, or, in especially sweet lives, <em> complete and utter fondness </em> (Grantaire doesn’t know how he gets so lucky), in all of those distinct looks there are only a few rare occasions in which Enjolras is uncertain about him. It’s jarring, because Grantaire had assumed Enjolras had decided about him by now. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but he sweeps his gaze over Grantaire and with a shake of his head says, “Well, I’m not here for <em> you </em>.” </p>
<p>All Grantaire can do is laugh and screech <em> “I know!” </em>like a madman, and maybe he is. He picks up his empty bottle, tosses it into the nearest trash bin, and ponders if the warmth in his chest is love or wine or something else.  </p>
<p>Yes, this is one of the many times Enjolras hates him. He hates him enough to lecture him for hours on the rise of the fascist state, to exasperatedly drive him home when he gets drunk, to take his bottle away before it happens. <em> You loved me, once, if you remember, </em>Grantaire thinks to himself in these lives, flipping through encyclopedias of French history in search of any mention of a little failed insurrection led by a pretty blond revolutionary. <strong><br/></strong></p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> (There are times when Enjolras has already met someone else. There are times when he is already happy holding someone else's hand, kissing someone else, or in especially troubling cases, already has a good-for-nothing cynic trailing his every move. It’s unsurprising that people get to him but Grantaire does, because he knows he can’t have him all the time, but the trouble is that even when Enjolras isn’t his, he is Enjolras’. Who can blame him? Enjolras, unlike himself, has never been unlovable. In these lives, Enjolras is a lot kinder to him, as in, he doesn’t notice him enough to be angry, and Grantaire doesn’t like that any better. He would rather Enjolras hate him. At least then he would look at him. At least then, if Enjolras did something tender like punch him square in the jaw, it would at least be a treasured touch.)  </em> <strong><br/></strong></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Occasionally, Enjolras will say something funny like <em> “I missed you,” </em> or “<em>You look familiar,” </em>but the former is usually just when he comes home late from work and the latter is usually when Grantaire is not as good at sneakily following him around as he thinks. Still, he says these things, and every time, without fail, Grantaire’s stomach flips as he wonders if this is finally the time when Enjolras will come back to him. But then he just gives him a smile, a wave of the hand, and sometimes, in his favorite lives, a peck on the cheek. A blissful oblivion behind the eyes, and sometimes, most of the time, Grantaire wouldn’t have it any other way. </p>
<p>It is 1982 in London and Enjolras is caught up in a riot that has something to do with Margaret Thatcher. Grantaire has a motorcycle in this one, and has, of course, been watching this very passionate boy rial up the crowd before the police come to break it up. This is not an unusual occurrence. Grantaire is quite sure he has seen this exact scenario play out 79 times across 34 different lives. </p>
<p>This time is fun, though, because the panic-stricken boy sees the cops interrupt, watches the crowd disperse, and anxiously scans the perimeters until his eyes lock onto Grantaire’s, and immediately makes a bee-line for him. Panting, nervous (and <em> so, so cute, </em>Grantaire will remember), he doesn’t hesitate to hop on the back of his motorcycle. </p>
<p>“What -?” Is all he can choke out before Enjolras is yelling at him to “<em>Drive, fucking drive!”  </em></p>
<p>If there’s one thing he’s learned over the years, it’s to obey a panicked Enjolras, so he drives and drives until they reach something of a grimy corner store on the other side of town, in need of gas. To Grantaire’s dismay, the other boy immediately gets off. </p>
<p>“Sorry,” he breathes, steadying himself against his handlebars. “I just - I didn’t know what to do.” </p>
<p>“Sure,” assures Grantaire, who is smiling because, well, he was waiting for him, anyway. He always is. He pulls off his helmet, and Enjolras takes his first (<em> first? </em>) real look at him. </p>
<p>He hums in consideration, outlining Grantaire’s curls and calloused fingers and crinkled eyes with his gaze. “Have we met before?” He asks. </p>
<p><em> Yes. </em>“No,” he says quickly. “Well - maybe. I don’t know. But I see you at these things all the time.” </p>
<p>This earns a laugh, one that delightfully wrinkles his nose. “Hopefully I don’t always seem so, uh -”</p>
<p>“Idealistic? You do.” <em> He always does. </em></p>
<p>“I wouldn’t call it <em> that,” </em> snides Enjolras, but there's a smile behind his eyes, and <em> oh </em> , <em> yes, that’s him </em> , <em> his Apollo </em> . “More like… <em> well</em>. Thank you, anyway.”</p>
<p>“Any time.” <em> All the time </em>, and even after that. <strong><br/></strong></p>
<p> </p>
<p>(<em>There are the worst times, the worst lives, in which they just barely never, ever meet. They move right past each other, just out of reach, for whole lifetimes. These are the worst, worst ones. These are the ones when Grantaire searches in different cities, different countries, different continents in search of him, in a sea of billions of people, for one starry-eyed revolutionary to be just around the corner. These are the lives when Grantaire wonders if he has finally disappeared, if this pseudo-Karmic dilemma has finally been resolved and Enjolras has reached some Nirvana without him, damning Grantaire to loneliness for the rest of eternity. After all, it’s only right Enjolras should fulfill his great destiny before him. Sometimes it’s dozens of lifetimes in a row without him. Sometimes it's kissing person after person looking for him, just to find no one, just to be haunted by the memory of the very first time, and all the times after that, they have found each other. Grantaire hates these the most. He prefers the ones where Enjolras murders him.) </em><strong><br/></strong></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Grantaire sometimes tries to reignite his memory. It’s easier once the internet is invented, and he can find some little half-accurate blog posts on minor insurrections that occurred during the June Rebellion. Some of them call Enjolras <em> stupid </em> and <em> impulsive </em> and Grantaire shudders thinking about how much like him they sound, back when he really was just a poor fool of a cynic. Some of them call him <em> a man of the people, </em> which makes Grantaire laugh. Some of them call him <em> a tragedy, </em>and Grantaire wants to cry. </p>
<p>Occasionally he finds these webpages and sends them to Enjolras, telling him this poor sap of a rebel reminds him of him. Sometimes Enjolras will tell him that he’s being stupid, or weird, but other times he’ll tell him <em> thank you </em>and Grantaire wants to scream. There are times, in drunken, manic fits, he tells Enjolras everything, that he has been chasing him since forever, that he has loved him forever, and in these fits Enjolras either laughs and kisses him or laughs and leaves him. He doesn’t blame him, but he wishes that any historian would mention the alcoholic, pierced by eight bullets, that was bowed at the revolutionary’s feet. That he could print a picture out and put it in a locket and bury his many corpses with it. </p>
<p>There is one night, though, when Enjolras is in a state between consciousness and sleep, that Grantaire tells him that he has loved him forever. “<em> Since before we met </em>,” he clarifies, and Enjolras laughs softly against his clavicle. They are tangled up together in Enjolras’ bed (because it’s always his bed), his leg wrapped around Grantaire’s waist, head buried in his shoulder. Grantaire can smell his shampoo - across the years, Enjolras has had a tendency for citrus-scented soap. </p>
<p>“Is that so?” He murmurs, and Grantaire hums in response. “I’ve loved you since forever, too.”</p>
<p>“No,” Grantaire assures. “Well, maybe, but that’s not what I mean. I mean I’ve met you in nearly every life I’ve lived, you know that?”</p>
<p>“Mhm,” he buzzes. “I know.” <em> No </em>, he doesn’t, but that's okay. </p>
<p>Grantaire absently runs a hand through Enjolras’ hair (back to blond, this time). “And you know, I am always the one to love more. That’s fine. I don’t think I’d have it any other way, me chasing you across time like this. But there is no life in which you are the one to love more.” </p>
<p>Enjolras’ eyelashes flutter open softly, heavy-lidded, and he croons his face up to give Grantaire a chaste brush of lips before he buries his head back into his neck. “Except this one,” he says warmly, wrapping himself even tighter around him, like if in his half-asleep state he half-believes Grantaire, and he can stick around forever just by squeezing him a bit tighter. “In this one, <em> you’re mine.”  </em></p>
<p>Granaire doesn’t know if that’s true, if there is some great big god out there measuring how much they have loved each other throughout history, or if there is some ultimate winner, but regardless, on lonely nights, Grantaire washes his hair with citrus and thinks about those words. Eventually, he accepts them as at least partially accurate. No matter who loves who more, in every life, without question, Grantaire is his. <strong><br/></strong></p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> (Grantaire has tried to love many other people. Or, at least, he tried in the beginning. In that second life, right after the first, he tried the hardest. He has tried to kiss many people who didn’t care much for politics and who didn’t have the passion of 1000 gods raging inside them. They all felt weak and limpid compared to Enjolras. He once asked, much later, on an internet forum of self-proclaimed ‘psychic witches’ that believed in all things divine - including (but not limited to) reincarnation - if it was common to remember all of these things. If it was common to chase one person throughout all of history, waiting for the one in which they were searching for you right back. They told him they didn’t know, and asked him why he didn’t just try to get over it like any other heartbreak. He left the forum after that, because he might be tormented by eternal reincarnation but god, witches are </em> such <em> bullshit. And also because he didn’t want to admit that among all of the different lovers he had taken, none have haunted him like Enjolras has.) </em></p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>The sex is memorable too, of course. Long, slow times in freshly-washed linen sheets, the familiar hot breath against his shoulder, the way Enjolras keens when Grantaire grinds into him. There have been times when Grantaire is so good that Enjolras cries, times when Enjolras has took his virginity or has lost his to him, times when he tells Grantaire that he <em> wants him inside of him forever, yes, forever, </em> and in between strokes he laughs a <em> sure, of course, whatever you want, </em> and omits the part where he asks him to <em> just please stop leaving me.  </em></p>
<p>Grantaire likes to surprise him, likes to do a delightful thing with his tongue that he knows Enjolras has enjoyed throughout the years. He has learned all of the different ways to open him up and has found that Enjolras likes to cling to him and whine into his neck and blabber on about nothing and everything, especially on times when it is very good (and there have been many, many times when it is very good). He has also found that Enjolras is partial to a stretch of skin along his jaw that he enjoys kissing and holding and whispering into. </p>
<p>He has had sex with a few others (and he ignores the fact that Enjolras has probably had many others), but none of those sadsacks make him shudder with just a brush of a hand across his navel, so he doesn’t care for hookups too often. Still, on lonely nights without him, he shuts his eyes and remembers the way Enjolras would straddle his lap and run a thumb across his bottom lip just before they kissed and the way he was always sleepy and gentle right after, blithely half-awake in his arms. </p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>(<em>Sometimes, on particularly good days, Grantaire will gaze at everything very wide-eyed and careful, and Enjolras will laugh and ask him what for. “ </em> Just looking,” <em> he’ll tell him, because he doesn’t know how to explain to him that he must keep everything inside of him forever. He must keep every memory of the way the sun slanted just perfectly and turned his hair into a cloudy halo, the way the moonlight sometimes turned his dark skin blue, the way he laughed so hard he choked. He must remember everything, so maybe in those long stretches of hibernation before they are reunited again, he will have something to look forward to. Or, more realistically, something to get him through it, all of it.) </em></p>
<p><br/>Yes, Grantaire remembers all of it distinctly, especially the first time, circa 1832. And sometimes when he whispers to Enjolras something like <em> “I believe in you,” </em> or murmurs <em> Apollo </em>as he grinds into him, or in dreams so vivid they feel like memories, there is a flash of lightning somewhere and for just a fleeting moment, Enjolras does, too.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>come say <a href="https://seravph.tumblr.com">hello</a> on tumblr!</p>
<p>the "drive fucking drive" <a href="https://pother.tumblr.com/post/113627310992/shrineart-quietzombiegirl-everyones/amp">story is from tumblr lol</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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